


Suddenly Last Summer

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Time, Pre-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-22
Updated: 2009-08-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 11:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8710216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: For a moment, the timbre of Sam’s voice put Dean right back in that kitchen, clenching his fists against the need to touch his brother again, biting back words he would have given anything not to mean.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Title taken from a play by Tennessee Williams. Also, Sam is seventeen in this story, hence the 'underage' warning.

***

 

John hadn’t said much yet, just spent the last day lumbering around the remote old rental house they’d holed up in all summer, fixing ancient leaks and rattles that hadn’t really garnered anyone’s attention before Sam slid the acceptance letter across the table at breakfast; after, Dean watched his father scrutinize every household appliance with nearly pathological precision. The Impala and the pick-up weren’t immune, either. Long after Sam had given up talking and reluctantly shuffled off to bed, Dean lay awake knowing his father was out there in the garage, hunched over the engine of the ’67 – a fine piece of craftsmanship John had restored with a measure of devotion Dean had grown strangely jealous of - pulling it apart piece by piece, examining it, blaming himself, wondering what went wrong. 

 

Not that it was hard to tell; with enough time and 

pressure, anything can break.

 

Dean knew a thing or two about that. 

 

The Winchester brothers had spent the last half of May cooped up in the Impala together, sharing motel rooms with their father and, sometimes, a bed with each other. Dean attributed his darkening mood to close quarters, to the rising heat and to Sam’s penchant for being, well, _Sam_ , never guessing how much a part of the problem his brother actually was until they came here to this two bedroom, one bath, broken down rental property that seemed, at first, like paradise compared to four wheels and the road. 

 

No one had slept and after a rushed, awkward meal of cold eggs and yesterday’s coffee, John had driven into town on some mumbled explanation about supplies. Dean checked his frustration and annoyance, saying only, “Yes, sir” for the millionth time when John uttered that tired old order about taking care of Sam. Under other circumstances, Dean might have waited until mid day to break into his Dad’s six-pack, but the gravel had barely settled on the driveway before he cracked open a bottle of Beck’s and shouldered his way out the front door, taking some satisfaction when the screen slammed hard behind him, reverberating on its hinges. Immediately, his face flushed; he wiped the sweat away with the back of his hand, pressed the chilled bottle to his cheek for a blessed moment of relief. The ancient porch railing protested, squeaking as he leaned against it, sipping his beer, surveying the yard - a shimmering sepia desert whose cloying heat, whose smell, whose very taste he couldn’t escape. If he’d felt any sort of inclination to move then, he could have taken the two broken steps, ambled a dozen feet to the Impala, and backed out down the gravel drive as John had done, disappearing into a cloud of red dust. Licking his lips, Dean took another drink, shaking off the notion as he suddenly realized his father wouldn’t be gone as long as the crumpled wad of bills on the kitchen table and the bag of salt by the door might imply; John was pissed, sure, was probably mulling things over with a whiskey and maybe even a woman, but he’d be back to deal with this soon enough; Winchesters just can’t resist a fight.

 

They’d each handle Sam in their own way, just as they’d always done. Thing was, with that August deadline looming, Dean knew there wasn’t a whole lot of time left to…to…

 

To what? Frowning, he squinted in the direction of the Impala, tamping down hard on the nauseating answer that once again insinuated itself between Dean and his denial. He let loose a brief bark of nervous laughter as he cursed himself for being, at best, weak.

 

At worst? Dean shifted uncomfortably as the impulses that haunted him most nights now shamed him into over-compensating for the unimaginable, reinforcing his gut instinct to keep Sam at a distance, to keep pushing him away.

 

Dean sighed. The problem with that strategy was fairly obvious: Winchesters always push back.

 

*

 

Dean had settled into a nice comfortable buzz against the wood shed, finished the last of his beer, was thinking about going back for seconds when Sam appeared around the corner.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey.”

 

In the silence that followed, Dean had time to catalog a dozen things that were less uncomfortable than waiting for Sam to make a point. He wished they’d just get to the argument he knew was coming. When Sam eyed the bottle in his brother’s hand, Dean decided to help things along.

 

“Got somethin’ to say, little brother?”

 

“Kinda early, isn’t it?” 

 

Dean shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere to be.” 

 

“Dean,” Sam shifted, clearing his throat nervously as he leveled a stern look at his brother, “we need to talk.”

 

“That so?” Dean squinted up at the younger man. “Seems you didn’t leave much to discuss.” 

 

Sam stepped forward, advancing slowly until he was standing a few feet away. Now, in the unforgiving light of a midsummer morning, Dean could see the circles under his eyes, the way his mouth was drawn down into a frown that would actually be kind of comical if the older man didn’t know he’d had some part in putting that look on his brother’s face. It was clear Sam hadn’t slept, had probably been agonizing over this moment for weeks. He shifted, obviously uncomfortable. “Dad, I can deal with,” he began. “I’m used to his disapproval, his disappointment, but you…” Sam glanced down at the ground, scuffed his shoe in the dirt like he was hoping Dean would finish his thought for him, like he didn’t want to hear himself say whatever was coming next. 

 

But suddenly Dean needed to hear it. “Spit it out, Sammy.”

 

Sam’s features softened in a way that was so particular to his delivery of bad news. It was at once endearing, comforting and heart-breaking. “I can’t leave knowing you’re mad at me.”

 

_But you_ will _leave_. Dean sighed. He couldn’t help how John had reacted, but Dean had it in him to do Sam the small favor of lying on his own behalf. 

 

“Don’t sweat it,” he said, standing up. Absently, he brushed dirt off the seat of his pants, hoping his brother would be gone when he looked up. He wasn’t.

 

“You’re angry.”

 

“I said it was okay, Sam. You’re goin’ to college. Good for you. I’m happy for ya, man.”

 

Sam peered at him for a long moment, chewing on his bottom lip, considering. “You don’t mean it.”

 

“Sure I do. Fact, I’m gettin’ another beer to celebrate,” Dean announced, pushing past him.

 

Sam snorted. “What is it with you and Dad? If you’re pissed, I wish you’d just say so.”

 

“I’m not pissed,” Dean said, turning to face him again. “I’m thirsty.”

 

“Don’t give me that crap. The only difference between you and Dad is you might actually be honest about how much you hate this.”

 

“You have a pretty damn high opinion of yourself,” the older man laughed. 

 

“I know you.”

 

_Not as well as you think._

 

“It bugs you, admit it.”

 

“It was a surprise, yeah,” Dean granted. “So?”

 

Stepping closer, Sam said, “I’m not just talking about Stanford.”

 

Dean blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog from his head. He didn’t know whether to blame the heat or the alcohol, but his involvement in this conversation was quickly outstripping his interest in it. 

 

“Make a point, will ya?” 

 

A strange look passed over Sam’s face, then: “I’m talking about _Dad_. Whether you wanna admit it or not, part of what’s eating at you is that I did something you’ve never been able to do; I stood _up_ to him.”

 

Dean pictured his father, alone, hunched over a bottle of something cheap and domestic, struggling mightily with his love for a son who suddenly seemed like a stranger. Sam’s leaving was an odd, indefinable loss, had stirred up feelings of betrayal for two men whose knee-jerk reaction had always been to protect their youngest at all costs. And, yes, there had been costs. That Sam seemed to be ignoring that, leaving now of his own volition, walking away from a life John and Dean had done their best to salvage from the ruins of their own aspirations, made Dean wonder if he’d ever really known his brother at all. Maybe Sam couldn’t tell, was probably too busy planning his next salvo, but at that moment, Dean was the perfect model of all his years of training, employing with rigid discipline many of his finely-honed skills, chief among them patience and repression. There were a lot of things he _wanted_ to say - some selfish, some true -but in the end he turned on his heal, leaving Sam with, “Yeah, you’re a real man.”

 

*

 

Lunch was a more or less perfect replica of the silent, awkward meal breakfast had been. Well, silent save for the AM talk radio - the only station they could almost get out here. Some local preacher was droning on, cutting in and out behind the static with the standard hellfire and damnation speech. As Dean picked through the frozen food, he caught snippets of the man’s dire warnings; the young hunter could only hazard a guess about the hereafter, but had to admit the man was right on the money about the immediate threat. When organs started playing in the background and a pre-recorded voiceover invited him to make the small sacrifice of a donation in exchange for the salvation of his soul, Dean snorted, snapping the radio off. 

 

He’d found a pizza in the back of the freezer, debated the month-old expiration date, and, though he was reluctant to turn the oven on, adding to the already scorching heat, he tore the plastic open, reasoning that Sam was less likely to bitch about this than the dusty old cans of chicken noodle soup that served as their other choice. Later, as Dean watched his brother push his food around on his own plate, the older man decided he’d make a run into town for something a little more exciting.

 

Maybe he’d see his Dad, get him to come back and settle this stupid Stanford thing once and for all. 

 

Toward the end of the meal, Dean made his way over to the refrigerator, peered inside to discover he was already halfway though his Dad’s six-pack. Beck’s went on the list as Dean popped open his fourth beer and closed the door.

 

“Hey, you want that?” Sam was nodding toward the last piece of pizza sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. Dean glanced at it, noticing quite by accident that the crisply-folded Stanford letter was now absent. 

 

“Nah.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Eat it or pitch it, I don’t care.”

 

Dean leaned against the counter, sipping his beer, enjoying the quiet. He was thinking he might pick up a fan while he was out, was imagining how good that would feel against his heated skin, had almost convinced himself it might be worth foregoing the beer, when he heard Sam’s chair squeak against the warped wood floor. Sam stood, gaining his full six feet. At seventeen, he still had some growing to do, and Dean often wondered how much longer his little brother would be looking up at him.

 

Up _to_ him. 

 

Or maybe he’d lost his right to expect that, considering.

 

“Dean.”

 

_Oh, man. Here we go again._ Shaking his head, Dean said, “It’s cool,” waving off what he feared would be another confrontation. He knew they still had stuff to talk about, but he had to pace himself; there wasn’t enough beer left in the house for him to get all the way into this and back out again. For that matter, there might not be enough beer, period. 

 

“Look, I just wanna say I’m sorry, you know, about what I said before.”

 

“Forget it.”

 

“You mad at me?”

 

“No.” 

 

Sam nodded. Dean noted the tension in Sam’s face as his brother glanced down at the floor, the slight tremor in his fingers as he absently picked loose paint chips off the silverware drawer. That should have been the end of it, they should have been able to part company until the next argument, but Dean found he couldn’t go yet. God knew he wanted to, was ready to slip into the Impala and be away, but Sam, with his trembling hands and doleful eyes, looked for all the world like he was on the verge of something only Dean could save him from. 

 

After a moment, Dean reached out, briefly tousling his kid brother’s hair. “Bitch.”

 

Sam glanced up, a slow smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Dean smiled back, allowed his gaze to rest a moment on his brother’s face, his eyes, his lips. The older man coughed then, looked away, nodded tightly, jamming his hands back in his pockets on the pretense of searching for keys. Dean wasn’t sure exactly what he’d said after that, barely remembered walking out to the car, just realized it was time to go.

 

*

 

Dean was strolling along the sidewalk of a town he was starting to think had been the inspiration for _The Andy Griffith Show_ , reveling a bit in the dirty looks he got from passers-by as he hoisted a twelve pack of Corona into the Impala; he could guess what the locals thought of a stranger in ripped jeans and a black wife-beater, hauling an ample supply of alcohol into a trunk big enough to hold a couple of bodies. He smirked.

 

A young woman on the sidewalk must have mistakenly thought he was grinning at her; the elderly woman with her must have been laboring under the same misconception, for she dragged the girl away, admonishing Dean sharply over her shoulder. “Stay away, boy. We don’t want no trouble, ya hear?”

 

A light breeze picked up, sending a paper cup skittering across the street. A toddler gave chase as a teenage boy called after him, rolling his eyes, cursing under his breath, but never letting the little one get more than an arm’s length away. 

 

Just as Dean slammed the trunk closed – louder than necessary, he knew – his phone rang. 

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Hey, ya on your way?” For a moment, the timbre of Sam’s voice put Dean was right back in that kitchen, clenching his fists against the need to touch his brother again, biting back words he would have given anything not to mean. He swallowed hard.

 

“Problem, Sammy? You break a nail or somethin’?”

 

The expected complaint about the use of Sam’s hated nickname was replaced by a silence, then: “I heard on the radio that a storm’s rollin’ in. Thought you better head back, seein’ as it’s kind of a long drive.”

 

Dean frowned. “You been listenin’ to that bible thumper? You know _that_ storm’s got nothin’ to do with the weather, right? It’s like an analogy, or whatever.” 

 

There was another silence. “Sam?” 

 

“Wow.”

 

“What?”

 

“You used the word _analogy_. In a sentence.”

 

“I got a couple more words for you, smartass.”

 

“That’s more of a metaphor.”

 

“Bite me.” Dean shook his head, smiling, as his brother laughed on the other end of the line. God, he’d missed that.

 

“Anyway,” Sam continued, “I got that from a local news bulletin that actually interrupted the dial-a-prayer hour.”

 

Dean squinted up at the sky; not a cloud in sight and still hot as hell. “I think the local weatherman’s smokin’ somethin’.”

 

“Storms around here come in fast. Sky’s gettin’ kinda dark over here, too. Maybe you should get off the road, you know, just in case.”

 

Dean still wasn’t convinced, but thought he’d seen a motel a couple of miles back. “Alright, maybe I’ll crash here for the night, come home in the morning.”

 

There was another silence, then: “Uh, okay.”

 

Dean smirked. “Are you afraid of the storm?”

 

“No!”

 

“You totally _are_!”

 

“Shut up! Anyway, you better get back before Dad does, or he’ll kick your ass for leaving me here alone.”

 

_Dad. Damn._ Closing his eyes, Dean pinched the bridge of his nose; suddenly, his head hurt. 

 

“Okay, _Samantha_ , keep your panties on, will ya?” Dean sighed. “Look, just in case the forecast isn’t _total_ bullshit, get bottled water, a flashli-”

 

“I _know_. Dean, seriously, ju-” 

 

Sam’s words were lost, swept up into the sudden, deafening wail of a tornado siren on the other end of the line. Dean winced, yanking the phone away from his ear.

 

“Sam?”

 

“Sam?”

 

“Sam!”

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes: This chapter contains a bit of dubious consent. As always, I own nothing here. Sorry for the slow update. Thanks for being patient.  


* * *

*

 

It worried Dean how quickly the sky had darkened; where once the horizon was a pallid, forgettable hue easily overlooked by virtue of the more immediate and oppressive heat, the world was suddenly drowning in a color only the truly stoic could understand. 

 

He concentrated on the road, clenching his hands hard against the steering wheel, ignoring as best he could the driving wind that rocked the car; the deep, rumbling roll of thunder; the shrill, ubiquitous cry of the siren; and the burn of bile at the back of his throat. Sam would be okay. _Had_ to be. He’d been trained well and anyway, odds were that Dad had heard the news, would be there to take charge. John would know what to do if things were as bad as Dean was beginning to fear they might be.

 

He leaned on the accelerator. 

 

Twenty miles back, he’d still been clinging to the hope that this was a drill or a mistake, but once Dean crossed the county line - where his only points of reference from then on were tattered scarecrows lashed and helplessly battered by the elements in a seemingly infinite amber sea – the wind picked up, buffeting the driver’s side so hard Dean barely felt the car making any forward progress at all. _Come on, damn it!_ Gripping the steering wheel harder, he overcompensated, skidded, ended up in the wrong lane. 

 

Not that it mattered. No one was coming. 

 

_Only a moron would be out driving in this, anyway._

 

As if to confirm Dean’s insight, it started to rain, a heavy, steady downpour that sheered across the windshield, at times completely obstructing his view of the road. 

 

_Perfect_. His plan to speed all the way back to the house, to Sam, was shot. 

 

As the minutes ticked by, as the wind rattled the windows and the sky finally relinquished the very last of its light, the Impala crawled forward, slowly closing the gap between the two brothers. Sighing heavily, Dean punched _play_ on the tape deck; Ted Nugent warbled to life.

 

_Stranglehold._

 

No shit.

 

*

 

The approach to the house was completely impassable -- at least by car-- by the time Dean skidded to a halt on the shoulder of the road. The rain had stopped but wind still howled, angry and unabated, daring him to get out, to fight his way through the debris field of fallen tree limbs and torn sheet metal tumbling through the yard.

 

Dares piss Dean off, especially when his brother is the bait.

 

Grabbing his jacket off the back seat, he shoved the first-aid kit and a flashlight from the glove compartment into his pocket, then abandoned the Impala.

 

*

 

When yanking on the front door didn’t work, Dean resorted to kicking it down, figuring he already had so much to answer for that this particular infraction wouldn’t matter much. 

 

Damage, after all, is relative.

 

“Sam!”

 

He knew his brother probably wouldn’t hear him over the din of those damn sirens, over the wind howling through the house, but he called for him anyway. Dean felt glass crunch underfoot as he swept the flashlight’s beam across the wet floor, revealing that most if not all of the windows had shattered, along, it seemed, with just about every other breakable object in the living room. 

 

He shone the light down the dark hallway.

 

“Sam!”

 

Dean judged he was about halfway down the hall when a sudden, particularly hard gust of wind rose up, knocking him off balance, first slamming his shoulder into the wall, then driving him forward onto his hands and knees. 

 

The flashlight rolled, hit the baseboard, blinked, then went out.

 

_Shit._

 

Dean scrabbled in the glass, cutting his right hand as he pulled himself up, feeling his way along slowly in the yawning darkness. In reality, he knew only a matter of feet lay between him and the nearest door, but as he hunched his shoulders against the roaring wind and peered into the black, the hallway seemed an endless abyss. He slipped, caught himself, slipped again. Pressing close to the wall, he paused a moment.

 

Suddenly, something sharp flew past his face, grazing his cheek. A second later, a larger object followed - maybe the remains of a vase, or, more likely, an empty liquor bottle – narrowly missing his head, shattering against the bathroom door.

 

Resting his cheek against the wall, Dean closed his eyes, sucked in a painful, shuttering breath, and whispered the closest thing to a prayer he’d ever uttered. Blinking back hot, angry tears, he called out for his brother again, a deep, enduring, unanswered cry that felt as though it was being ripped from him.

 

“Sam!”

 

And then, two strong arms wrapped around him. Training and adrenaline kicked in as Dean instinctively fought the hold, but then stilled at the startling touch of Sam’s mouth against his ear. “Christ,” Dean groaned, partly out of relief, partly out of irritation, and partly out of some third thing he was so damn tired of trying to understand. 

 

*

 

The darkness was close, like a second skin, as they slammed the bathroom door, locking it.

 

You okay?” Sam asked, once again clutching Dean in a fierce hug.

 

Sidestepping any number of smartass answers, he simply nodded against Sam’s cheek, lulled now by the strong, steady rhythm of his brother’s heartbeat, by the suddenly overwhelming warmth and weight of him. Swallowing hard, Dean drew back. “You?” 

 

Just as the younger man started to speak, the floor abruptly shifted, shaking violently, sending them crashing into the wall; before the back of Dean’s head could connect with the faded yellow tile, though, Sam’s hand was there, taking the blow. 

 

“Dean!”

 

The older man slowly slid to the floor, resting his back against the wall. Sam followed, never breaking contact.

 

“Son of a-” Dean frowned, made no comment about the fact that Sam’s hand was still splayed behind his head. “Feels like the whole fuckin’ world’s falling apart.” Secretly, he was beginning to wonder if this wasn’t the end game their father had been training them for all their lives. 

Sam gripped him harder, groaning, as another vibration ran through the floor. Then, the room was almost quiet, save the door rattling on its hinges and the thunderous sound of blood pounding in Dean’s ears as Sam pressed closer in the darkness. 

 

Too close.

 

“Aw, man, are you alright?” 

 

“Yeah. Hey, how’s the hand?” Dean inquired, grateful for the small distraction from Sam’s rich, warm, earthy scent, a little alarmed that he was noticing such things. 

 

“S’okay.” 

 

“Let me see.”

 

“Dean-”

 

“Let me see,” he said, suddenly reminded of his own hand. He winced. “You get a flashlight like I told you to?” As Dean dug for the first-aid kit in his pocket, Sam slowly moved away in the darkness, then was back, shining a light between them. 

 

“Damn,” Dean muttered. “Must’ve dropped the kit out in the hall.” 

 

“Don’t even think about it,” Sam warned as his brother glanced toward the door. Any argument Dean might have been about to make was silenced as Sam’s fingers gently brushed the tender flesh near the cut on his cheek, an injury he’d all but forgotten about.

 

“That’s gonna need stitches,” the young hunter whispered, tilting his brother’s chin higher, skimming his thumb gently along the older man’s jaw. Dean tensed at the touch, turned away.

 

“Later. Give me some light down here, will ya?” The beam had barely fallen on Dean’s hand, when, without ceremony, he yanked the bloody shard of glass out of his own palm. It hurt, but he figured that, for a lot of reasons, he probably had that coming.

 

“Jesus, you’re bleeding,” Sam said, reaching for him again.

 

Dean shrugged, absently wiping his hand on the front of his shirt. “Now you.”

 

“Dean, you’re-”

 

“Come _on_!” he snapped, regretting it instantly. Anger was truly the last thing he felt for his brother, but Dean was too confused, too exhausted, to make many distinctions just now.

 

Sam yanked his t-shirt over his head, tore it in half. “You always have to make things so damn hard. You can’t just…just…”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Dean frowned. Ordinarily, this might have been an opportunity for him to make a joke that somehow called Sam’s manhood into question, but the hard look on his brother’s face – one Dean’d been seeing too much of lately – gave him pause. It was a measure of his concern that, despite his many reservations and the knot in his belly, Dean laid a tentative hand on the other’s bare shoulder.

 

“Hey,” he began, uncertain of his intention beyond ridding Sam of that haunted look. Dean knew he wasn’t good at this kind of thing; he often lumbered through the finer points of relationships, destroying them in the process. His connection to John survived, he guessed, exactly because they were the same in this, understood it about themselves and each other, didn’t want or need much more out of life than food, occasional shelter, and revenge. 

 

Until now.

 

“Look,” he began clumsily, “I just wanna…you know…” Dean absently rubbed the back of his head, glanced at the floor. “Thanks.”

 

Sam shrugged.

 

“You did good,” Dean insisted. “Nice reflexes, too, by the way. Probably kept me from crackin’ my head open.” He’d already determined that Sam had probably been telling the truth about his own hand; Dean had seen no bruising and the younger man had been using it without complaint when he began tearing the t-shirt into makeshift bandages. He wondered at that briefly, guessed maybe he’d underestimated Sam. They took the strips up then and silently began dressing Dean’s wound. 

 

“Nice job,” Dean observed when it was done. Blood was already soaking through the thin cotton, but the wrap was well executed, nonetheless.

 

Sam smiled a little at the unsolicited praise. 

 

There was a moment of awkward silence when Dean realized his hand was still resting in Sam’s. As Dean withdrew it, his fingers briefly grazed his brother’s thigh.

 

He wasn’t sure what he was getting ready to do then; maybe apologize, maybe laugh it off with a crass joke at his own expense. He was midway between the two options when, suddenly and completely unexpectedly, he felt Sam’s lips brush his own, the touch so light, Dean wondered if he’d imagined it. 

 

“Sam-”

 

The young hunter leaned down, cupping Dean’s head with strong, sure hands; there was a dark look in his eyes that Dean wasn’t sure he recognized or liked. He did, however, recognize the intent.

 

“Sam, no -” Dean suddenly felt dirty with guilt and arousal. After all, wasn’t this situation one of the first he’d dared to fantasize about, to jack off to, even when his brother was lying in bed right next to him? 

 

“Shhh… it’s okay.” The kiss came again, this time bold and graceless, as if Sam had been holding it back all his life. Dean reached for him, had every intention of shoving him away, of saving at least _one_ of them, when his wrists were caught up in a surprisingly firm grip. The older man moaned some sort of protest against Sam’s tongue, but the young hunter opened his mouth wider, swallowed it down, deepening the kiss. 

 

Then, Dean found his hands on Sam’s bare shoulders, felt Sam’s fingers trailing down his neck, his chest, skimming under the hem of his shirt. Sam was well on his way to re-enacting Dean’s second fantasy as he pressed the palm of his hand to the bulge in his brother’s jeans. A tremor of excitement and fear raced up the older man’s spine. 

 

_This can’t be happening…_

 

But it was, and Dean was _letting_ it. Part of him still wanted to stop, was screaming for it, knew it was wrong, but he just _couldn’t_. Breaking the kiss, he pressed his open mouth hungrily to Sam’s neck, biting and sucking the taut, tanned flesh his brother so freely exposed.

 

_All those months of careful concealment undone in a matter of moments…_

 

Dean was licking a hot circle around Sam’s left nipple when he felt a hand on the back of his head. “Come here,” Sam whispered breathlessly, helping Dean to his feet; the older man soon found his back to the wall and his brother’s hand on his zipper.

 

“Don’t…please…we have to stop…” Dean shook his head as his seventeen-year-old brother’s fingers softly brushed the tip of his cock. _Kissing_ Sam was one thing, maybe even something Dean could eventually forgive himself for, but _this…_

 

“Shhh…”

 

“We can’t…”

 

“Relax…”

 

“You don’t…Oh, _God…_ ” Dean thrust involuntarily into Sam’s grip as the younger man slowly started pumping him with long, firm, skilled strokes.

 

“Christ, you feel good…so _hard_ …” Sam whispered against his ear. Dean closed his eyes, groaning. 

 

_Jesus._

 

Sam stroked faster. “Yeah… come on.” 

 

All pretense had long since been abandoned. Dean was seconds away from doing exactly what Sam was urging; from doing irreparable damage to their relationship; from breaking a promise and becoming a man who couldn’t live with himself. He’d come here to save his brother, but instead he’d damned them both.

 

At that moment, he couldn’t imagine anything worse.

 

Then, there came a sharp rap at the door; John’s voice called from the other side.

 

“Dean! Sam!”

 

*


	3. Chapter 3

  
Author's notes: Once again, I'm sorry for the slow update. Originally, this section was going to be part of a longer chapter, but I've decided it should stand on its own. More is on the way.  


* * *

***

 

To Dean, his father’s voice seemed to come from a great distance; though he was just on the other side of the door, for all Dean was able to respond, he may as well have been on the other side of the world. 

 

“You boys in there?” John called.

 

For a moment, all movement stopped, save the remnants of Dean’s desire as his cock throbbed in his brother’s hand. Time itself seemed frozen in sympathy with the Winchesters as their eyes met, wide with confusion and fear. They were caught. There was no chance for them and no choice but to let go. Dean understood that, was already marshalling the will to do it, but was surprised to find it harder in ways and for reasons he didn’t yet understand. He was wondering at that distantly when the knock at the door came again, louder and more insistent, if that were possible, jarring him out of his thoughts. 

 

“Just a sec, Dad,” he called over his shoulder. Sam shook his head disbelievingly as the older man grabbed his wrist, pushing it away. “Please, just let me-” Sam whispered as he reached for him again, twisting his trembling fingers in the damp fabric of Dean’s t-shirt. 

 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean groaned, reaching between them, fumbling with his zipper.

 

_“Dean-”_

 

“So help me, if you don’t let go-” 

 

“I _want_ it, okay? I want _you_ ,” he whispered fiercely, like that suddenly gave them time and permission. It was a significant if startling confession that didn’t quite sink in, distracted as Dean was by what lay in wait for them on the other side of the door. _Of course he wants it_ , Dean reasoned. Sam was a horny teenager whose main sexual outlet thus far had consisted of covertly jacking off in crappy motel rooms to scrambled porn. Dean could sympathize.

 

To a point. 

 

“Stop it.”

 

“You want it, too, don’t you?”

 

“Sam-”

 

“ _Don’t_ you?”

 

Dean caught him by the shoulders then, shoving him away with more force than he meant to. Sam stumbled back. “No,” he lied. “Okay? Just…no.” Dean felt like an asshole, knew his brother was hurting and fought the urge to take it all back, but figured maybe contempt wouldn’t be the worst possible thing to come out of this; maybe it was the price they had to pay for doing this to each other, to keep from ever doing it again. 

 

_It’s better this way_ , Dean told himself. 

 

“What’s the holdup?” John called out. “You boys okay?”

 

Dean couldn’t help a bitter, derisive bark of laughter. No, they weren’t okay, and as Sam schooled his features to an impassive gaze that somehow seemed to dare Dean to answer, part of him doubted they would be. A long silence unraveled between them, then Dean said, “I hurt my hand. Sam’s helping me wrap it. It’s alright, though.” It was lame, but it would buy them some time.

 

“Here,” Dean whispered, shrugging out of his denim jacket. “Put this on.” Sam stared at him like he was going to refuse out of spite. Dean sighed. “Think whatever you want about me, but do it later.”

 

Sam chewed his lip, regarded the jacket doubtfully. “Won’t my wearing that just look like we’re trying to hide something?” 

 

“We _are_ trying to hide something.”

 

“I don’t think it’s gonna help anything.”

 

“Just put it on.”

 

“Dean-”

 

“You’ve got three hickeys on your chest,” Dean observed pointedly, swallowing hard at the memory of putting them there. “Wear the damn jacket.” He pulled his own shirt out to hang loose over his fly, hoping to hide his painful erection. Smoothing his hair back, he rested his hand on the doorknob, waiting. He knew Sam was right, that the jacket wouldn’t hide anything from John, not for long. He’d figure it out, was probably already suspicious, would know for sure as soon as he saw them, _smelled_ them, but there was nothing they could do about that now. 

 

“Hey,” Dean said, pointing at Sam’s cheek. “You’ve got…” he reached out, quite by instinct, and wiped the blood from his brother’s face, figuring it had smeared off of his own when they were kissing. _Kissing. Right. Call it what it is_ , he thought miserably. _You were making out with him. Jesus._ Sam briefly turned into the touch, pressing his cheek against the older man’s fingers. His eyes slipped closed and Dean was tempted to think he’d been wrong, that having this with Sam was worth risking everything, including the one thing he’d always thought he couldn’t live without: John’s trust. He pulled away then, turned back toward the door like the coward he felt like so he wouldn’t have to see again the look of bitter betrayal on his brother’s face.

 

“You ready?” Dean finally asked. He took Sam’s silence as the closest thing to an answer he was going to get.

 

Dean’s fingers tightened around the doorknob again. “Let me do the talking.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“We’ll get through this,” Dean whispered, almost to himself. It was an all-encompassing promise he didn’t really believe, but as usual, he was willing to say, to _do_ , just about anything to make it true.

 

“Let’s just get it over with,” Sam said, shoving past him.

 

*

 

The hallway was still dark - too dark, apparently, for John to yet notice anything unusual about his sons. The boys followed him out into the living room, the sound of broken glass crunching underfoot. Dean stalled, walked slowly as he tried to work out something to say, some plausible excuse when, not _if_ , John asked what they’d been doing. As they reached the end of the corridor, he decided he might, for once, try the truth.

 

*

 

Dusk had fallen upon the room, bathing the wreckage of their home in deep amethyst shadows. As night closed in around them, the Winchester men stood there, silently surveying the damage. 

 

The only piece of furniture still standing was the couch, though it seemed the wind had blown it several feet closer to the kitchen; the few tables lay up-ended, the wooden chairs were now a pile of debris in the far corner. The front door hung haphazardly off its hinges where Dean had kicked it in and every window in the room had shattered, covering the floor in tiny shards of glass that glinted in the failing light like a cosmos of fallen stars.

 

The oldest Winchester glanced between his two sons. Dean studied his father as much as he dared to look at him, had seen the moment when John’s expression changed, however subtly, from concern to relief to suspicion. He was putting it together: the delay, Dean’s jacket, Sam’s evasive glances. Taken alone, none of it was really enough to convict them of what they’d done, but Dean knew it raised a doubt in John’s mind that was just as damaging as a full confession. Dean stared down at his shoes. He realized he was making things worse for himself by not meeting his father’s gaze, but the weight of the older man’s stare was suddenly unbearable. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam pull his jacket closer around himself, like that concealed anything. He sighed. The kid was right; it had been a dumb idea. 

 

Finally, after what seemed like an interminable wait, John slipped a hand into each of his own jacket pockets, coming up with a flashlight in one and the first-aid kit in the other. 

 

“I’m gonna go check the breaker box,” he said.

 

Dean slowly looked up. “What?”

 

“I’m gonna go check the breaker box.” Handing the first-aid kit to his oldest, he added, “Wait for me in the kitchen.” Dean held the small white box, frowning, as Sam stood by, saying nothing. John turned to go to the garage, stopping only long enough to look at the damaged front door. Dean watched his father run his hand over the splinted wood; suddenly, he felt profoundly ashamed. 

 

“Dad,” he called softly. John stood there, staring at the door for a long time, seemingly lost in thought. Dean heard the hitch in his voice when his father finally said, “I’m not sure how to fix this.”

 

Before Dean could answer, he was gone.

 

*


	4. Chapter 4

  
Author's notes: I took a few liberties with product descriptions in this chapter, but for the most part, the info here is accurate per my light research. From what I can tell, Rexall chain drug stores are no longer open, at least not in North America, but I ignored that here in favor of adding a sense of nostalgia to the setting in this chapter.   


* * *

Title: Suddenly Last Summer – Chapter 4

Author: jdax

 

***

 

Dean was standing in aisle four of _Loyd’s Bait It or Build It_ , a hardware and tackle supply store that reeked of fish, turpentine, and, judging from the mop leaning against the door of the single toilet in the back, probably a few things the fish and turpentine were mercifully filtering out. As he yanked the collar of his t-shirt up to wipe sweat from his face, Dean wondered if it had occurred to the owners to turn on the small, blue, plastic fan they were hawking next to the checkout counter. A hand-written sign informed him that it was an “8 inch _Aloha Flurry_ – whimsically designed, fabulously portable, wonderfully playful.” _Yeah, exactly what I look for in a hunk of plastic designed to blow air._ Further down, in small print: “Ultra-safe construction protects hands and fingers.” Flexing his bandaged knuckles, Dean snorted. 

 

Scanning the room, he saw his father, just down the aisle, haggling with a young salesman over the price of replacement windows. The kid had stepped back a few paces, kept nervously pushing his glasses up on his nose and nodding vigorously as John went over the long list of supplies he’d pulled from his pocket. The young man looked kind of dazed and it was then Dean knew he was silently calculating his commission. 

 

Turning slowly, Dean slipped a small, brown box off the shelf in front of him, pretended to study it as he dared a glance at his brother, who was leaning casually against the check-out counter, nodding politely at a plump, ruddy-faced, middle-aged woman in a plain brown dress – about the same shade as the parcel Dean was holding, actually - whose hands flapped excitedly when Sam offered a deep, hearty laugh at something she’d said. 

 

Dean gripped the box harder, had every intention of going back to gathering up nails or bolts or whatever the fuck John had told him to do, but his brother shifted then; Sam’s t-shirt rode up a little in back, revealing the fine curve of his ass.

 

Heat rose to Dean’s face again. He looked away. He knew Sam was only doing what John had told him to do – secure a discount – but damn he’d gotten good at the brand of persuasion Dean thought he’d claimed as his own. Watching Sam now, it seemed as though his little brother was well on his way to perfecting it.

 

Currently, _Benny and the Jets_ was taking a beating at the hands of the newly installed Muzak system; Dean had noticed a couple of reps milling impatiently around the _Coke_ machine by the door, obviously trying to catch the woman’s attention.

 

_Good luck_ , he thought, stealing another glance at his brother. Sam had broken into a huge grin - one Dean had come to think only he could solicit – and the woman leaned forward, wide-eyed, mesmerized. As Dean absently fingered the small parcel in his hands, his heart raced, just as it had this morning when Sam’s thigh, warm and firm, pressed against his own - intentionally or unintentionally, he didn't know - during the long, silent drive into town in the cab of John's pick-up truck; just as it had last night when Sam had lead him into the bathroom, to what he thought would be safety for both of them; just as it had every moment for months now. Dean knew there had been a time before he felt like this, before the mere thought of his brother was so overwhelming it nearly drove him to his knees, but he couldn’t remember. 

 

Couldn’t think.

 

Couldn’t…

 

“Help you?”

 

Dean looked up. 

 

“Good choice, young man. A little unorthodox for everyday use, but that’s just because people aren’t used to the idea yet. With any luck, they will be.” The person speaking – a thin, older man with white hair in twill slacks and a cardigan reminiscent of Fred Rogers – nodded toward the box of screws in the younger man’s hand, smiling proudly.

 

The man was still talking and Dean didn’t really give a damn and Sam’s laugh rang out again, warm and genuine. 

 

The man paused, cleared his throat; obviously, he knew he didn’t have Dean’s attention. The younger man dragged his attention back to the task at hand. He glanced down at the box once again. “The SPAX, huh?”

 

The older man smiled, readying himself to launch into his sale’s pitch again. “Yes, sir,” he began. “May I?” he said, opening the box and carefully plucking one of the screws from it. “See?” he insisted, triumphantly holding up what Dean had to admit was an impressive-looking piece of hardware – a screw with a fully-threaded shank and a serration pattern he’d never seen before. “They call it ‘the fastener from the future,’”

 

Dean nodded from time to time as the man went on about the German influence on the design and all that implied about precision engineering and quality. He was just getting to the patented 4CUT point when Dean began to wonder how this man ended up working here. Frankly, Dean had expected to get this speech from someone who looked more like Bobby Singer or hell, even John, but this guy’s pitch, though well-executed, was obviously rehearsed; Dean could tell they were both bored with it. 

 

Pulling a crisply-folded handkerchief from his back pocket, the older man wiped sweat from his brow. “Ah, damn. Excuse me,” he said, dropping the screw back into the box and walking away. A moment later, Dean heard the bells ring brightly over the front door, then the sound of the old man coughing, hard.

 

Through the glass doors, Dean watched the man cross the street to the Rexall, stopping every few feet as his body was wracked with another round of coughs.

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Can I help you, hon?” The ruddy-faced woman was bustling down the aisle toward Dean at a pace that, given her girth, he never would have guessed she was capable of. 

 

“Just looking, thanks,” he said, waving her off. “Hey,” he added, frowning, “That guy I was just talking to, is he okay?”

 

“Uncle Frank? Well, he has these…these spells, but he’s alright.” The smile she responded with was just as rehearsed as the sales pitch he’d just endured. “Now, can I do something for you, dear?”

 

Dean glanced over at Sam, who was now casually flipping through a copy of _Horticulture_. The Muzak reps were gone. Her attention, for the moment, was focused squarely on Dean.

 

“Well, I guess-”

 

Just then, the bell sounded again. They both glanced at the door. Dean thought he’d see the old man, returning with a plain brown paper bag with a pharmacy receipt stapled to it. The two men who actually walked in were not at all what he was expecting. 

 

The first was a tall, blond man, graying a little at the temples, wearing a blue polo shirt, jeans, and well-worn boots. A kid about Sam’s age came in right behind him. The boy, tall and lean, also like Sam, had on jeans, sneakers, and a red t-shirt with _Remy Zero_ printed across the front in faded letters. 

 

Later, when Dean teased him about supporting what he considered to be an emo band, the kid would explain how they’d played at his school a couple of years ago. He’d laughed. “At least these guys had a hit this decade,” the boy quipped, nodding toward the Impala and the makeshift shrine to classic rock that lay inside. 

 

“Oh, oh, oh…,” the woman said excitedly, her eyes suddenly glazing over as she smoothed out her dress. “Does my hair look alright?” she asked, not really waiting for an answer.

 

From what he could see, Dean had to admit the newcomers were better looking than most locals he came across in towns this size, but that was about all he had to go on to explain the woman’s unbridled enthusiasm at their arrival. Even Sam, with his tall, dark and charming routine, hadn’t garnered such a response. Dean shrugged. “What’s the big deal?”

 

For the first time since the two men had arrived, she actually looked at Dean. “What’s the big deal?” She frowned; the tension suddenly melted from her face, though, replaced once again by the vacuous expression from before. “For Heaven’s sake,” she said sweetly, gathering up the hem of her skirt and walking away. “The _Kents_ are here.” 

 

*

 

She said their name like it should explain everything; maybe to someone who lived around here, it would.

Before Dean could make any sort of reply, she was hurrying toward the two men. “It’s _so_ nice to see you both!” she gushed.

 

Dean was watching the newcomers with interest when the young salesman John had been talking to for the last half-hour came up behind him. “Pathetic, isn’t it?” he said.

 

“Hmm.”

 

The way she, _she_ …” he snorted. “If I were them, I’d make the longer drive into the city just to avoid this spectacle.”

 

“Why don’t they?”

 

“Probably can’t afford it. They’re in here practically every week ‘cause that Clark kid’s always breaking something or other out at the farm. Never seen a kid so accident prone.” The young man lowered his voice conspiratorially. “She gives Mr. Kent a discount,” he whispered, “but rumor is Ms. Talbot’d like to give him a lot more than that.”

 

That much was obvious. Taking Mr. Kent by the elbow, she led him up one aisle and down the other, pointing different items out along the way. 

 

The clerk rolled his eyes. “She gives him the tour every week, like he hasn’t already been here a million times. She fawns over him. I mean, Mr. Kent’s a nice guy, but that doesn’t mean he’s interested, you know? He’s too polite to say anything about it.” The kid sighed. “I wish she’d just get it through her head that the two of them are _never_ gonna happen.”

 

Dean nodded, pretended not to notice as Sam looked up every now and then from his magazine to cast appraising glances at Clark, who was currently fishing change out of his pockets by the _Coke_ machine. John, who had emerged from the back of the store with a bundle of bungee cord, warily watched all three of them. 

 

The young clerk saw the eldest Winchester, pulled John’s hand-written list from his pocket, carefully smoothed it out. Dean could see where the kid had penciled in prices next to the big-ticket items; he’d drawn dollar signs next to the most expensive things. “Like I said, it’s pathetic.” 

 

Dean chewed on his lip, nodded slowly. “Hmm.”

 

*


End file.
